Contemplating the woods
by Rubber-duckiesofdoom
Summary: A fic that goes along with Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening". Remus thinks about the results of his life and all that he has lost. rated for suicide


Contemplating the Woods 

_Whose woods these are I think I know._

_His house is in the village though;_

_He will not see me stopping here _

_To watch his woods fill up with snow._

_My little horse must think it queer_

_To stop without a farmhouse near_

_Between the woods and frozen lake_

_The darkest evening of the year._

_He gives his harness bells a shake_

_To ask if there is some mistake._

_The only other sound's the sweep _

_Of easy wind and downy flake._

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

_-Robert Frost_

A man stares out into voids of white mist. He wears a trench coat, and an unshaven chin; a frown matches the sullen look. It does not fit this man's kind face- a face meant for laughing, a face for trouble making. His eyes have the crinkles around the edges that, although appearing as wrinkles on an already aging face, take of barrels of the stress that is borne upon his shoulders every day. The crinkles of somebody who loves life. Somebody who lives it full to the brim of happiness and friends. But his younger comrades have only seen those crinkles covered in dust. He hasn't used them for a long time.

The man now sighs. He knows the mist well. It weeps with him. It saw the horrors on Halloween, the horrors that changed his life. Ruined it even. It was there. But the mist does not like the man however. The man has cursed the mist times upon times angrily, from his waking hours in his cold, cold apartment, to the moment he falls asleep on the couch again with a tear stained face, believing it is the fault of the mist that his life was destroyed in twenty four hours. The life of three wonderful, naughty friends. A beautiful green-eyed baby and his charming mother. One, a traitor, honored for his deception. Another; convicted of trying to save three innocent lives, but making the wrong choice. Two humans, more in love than the world were flung from life that night. And a baby. His face forever scarred, future ruined, and left with hundreds bearing the dark emblem of evil wishing him dead. The baby's whimpers were muted by the mist – unable to forewarn the parents. To this slouching man, the mist killed Lily and James.

But it is not true. The mist had tried to shield them. Snow could not come. It was still asleep, preparing for the long, harsh winter ahead. There was no time for rain to be arisen in the heat wave. So mist charged ahead, knowing it was their only hope. But it did not work.

The man now thinks back upon his favorite poem. The beautiful woods of death loomed closer. He could see the icicles rigidly poking out from the trees- the deers softly treading in the newly fallen snow. If he did not walk confidently in, he knew, he would be pushed in. No – the woods would not take him that way.

The horse that was always in tow. The horse persisting that he continue on. Harry. He was dead. Now the jolly horse – always up for a good run around the edge of the woods – the horse was a carcass. Frozen in it's wild frenzy of finding that the trail that held hands with the forest was never, never, straight. No. Remus had long ago learned that lesson.

Hogwarts- destroyed. Nothing to call to Harry now. Nothing that Remus had to keep alive to get him too. No. There was no point in trying to re-build it. It would never be the same.

The frozen lake now. 'This one… this is the one I do not understand' he would always think to himself. Now… just now, he had an idea of what the frozen lake in his life might be. The frozen lake, he grimly realized, was the desolate life he led. Remus had always been shy. But he had had friends. Now…. Now, all that he knew was gone. The few things close – places and people… destroyed. The frozen lake of life was ever cold, never forgiving.

Ah. The harness bells now. He could hear them shaking. He knew it. Harry, in his will, had left letters to Ron and Hermione. Remus was almost completely sure that he had wisehd that they to cheer him up. Harry knew about the creeping depression. He had caught the graying man that late night, sobbing at the table, knife in hand. It was sweet of that carcass to try to life through others to help his friend, forever stuck between the woods and lake. But the little horse could never come back alive in the cold, cold storm.

The occasional beautiful sound whistling by wasn't uncommon in his life. He knew that. He was now a teacher in a school for young witches. He knew that this was an uncanny stroke of luck. Which is why he could not hear the tinkle of such merry sound that would brush pass him. Dumbledore would have something to do with it. And Dumbledore was just to kind. That wasn't good. Because he tried to hard. Remus felt as if he were an eight year old again – everyone wanted to help. They knew about the bite. They really did feel guilty. But they were too scared to come up to Remus. To tell him it would be all right. To do anything but apologize and make donations of cold money and heartless favors. Those were no help. Dumbledore was just another goody goody who loved to give to the cause. Little did he know that the "cause" did not want to be given too. Or perhaps he did know. Perhaps he just didn't care..

Death… so inviting. To see Sirius- Harry- James… and Lily. How he missed them all. A simple slice… mere seconds of pain, until bliss. He would be gone of the evil infested world. The world that had a frostbite that would only result in death. A world that was too far gone for any other alternative.

The last section of the poem that he had sworn – sworn- that once he fulfilled it all; that he could think of one thing for each section, that the promises would not matter, he could finally enter the entrancing woods, it would not be easy. There was an art to suicide, Remus knew. You could pull a Cleopatra. She had planned hers to be glamorous. To be as if it was better to die young and in pain than old and happy, just so you would be remembered. At least that was how Remus had always translated it – although that was perhaps because he, himself, felt that way. Than, there was the classic "sorry" note and the gun. But that could go awry. He did not want to risk a worse life because of his death wish gone wrong.

Now the man glances around once more. The mist, though his enemy, the one he hates more than anything, is like a best nemesis. Always there, always reliable. He now murmers two words to the mist, which swirls delighted in a slight breeze that has carried in dawn since the beginning of time. It relishes the words and whispers them back to the man with the haunted eyes and a slightest hint of a smile.

"Thank you"

A/N: We had to memorize the poem last year, so I figured what the hell, I'll se what you people think about it. So, about that… what do you think? Reviews would be much appreciated!


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